Every child is born into the stone age; predisposed to nothing, naked, dependent upon the cloth and the nipple. They speak the language of hunger and want with gurgled grunts and random howls. They age, and the bedrock sinks deeper: flesh and memory spun together in a primitive weave. Words are flash-frozen, and the mired conceits bear anger and pleasure and the twisted knot of both and neither, complex carbon desires, the raw veneration of self. There is an ache for meaning for something unknowable, primitive but blood deep. These years are set in stone: the poison tongues that whisper jealousy and judgment, the ruthless blackguard, the denigrating conversations. Set in stone until the stone is set upon them.